


Reforged

by thisisthemorning



Category: Emelan - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Bonding, Family Feels, Found Family, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 12:13:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17043533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisisthemorning/pseuds/thisisthemorning
Summary: After they return from Namorn, Briar, Daja, Sandry and Tris find new ways to be family.





	Reforged

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FaiaSakura](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaiaSakura/gifts).



Whenever Sandry has a problem, she goes to Daja’s forge. Maybe it reminds her of the old days, in Discipline Cottage, with its combination of hard work and the coziness of home. Or maybe it's because she knows that Daja will always be there, always happy to lend an ear and some words of advice while she works the living metal that has become to sought after across Emelan. Maybe it's just because, despite the thread-circle lump in her palm and the fact that the four of them can still mind-speak at will, Sandry still likes the reassurance of seeing her siblings in person—of seeing in their faces that their circle is reforged, and that old hurts are nearly mended.

  
It’s Daja she goes to for advice, too, because with Triss in Lightsbridge and Briar often on the road for trade, Daja is the closest to home. So one muggy evening at the tail end of Mead Moon, Sandry finds herself stepping across the threshold and into the oppressive heat of the forge. The thread magic in her clothing protects her from the heat, of course—it’s only sensible to weave that into every summer dress she makes—but it’s impossible to avoid the way it strikes her face as she enters.

  
The welcoming grin Daja gives her, and her answering smile, sends a warm pulse of _rightness_ through the lump in her palm. “Sandry!” Daja says, always pleased to see her, never afraid to tell her when she’s being foolish. “I’m glad you're here… I need your advice on how to make this work.”

  
And Sandry knows that _that’s_ why she goes to Daja’s forge. Because  when she needs to escape being the Duke’s niece, being a noblewoman, being pursued by suitors and worrying over her uncle’s health and the future of his realm, she can come here and be truly, practically _useful._ She sweeps forward, the cloth of her skirts scorning the dirt and dust of the floor, and gets her hands dirty.

—

The letter burns a hole in Daja’s pocket, an angry heat of a kind she never feels from the ordinary fire of her forge. She’s been tempted, three times today already, to throw it in and watch it melt away—but each time, she hasn’t quite been able to bring herself to do it. 

Instead, she’s making nails. Frostpine was right, all that time ago. When she needs to work out her frustrations, when meditation won’t work, it’s now so much a habit that eventually, somehow, it soothes her. “Or that’s the idea, anyway,” she mutters, annoyed that, so far, it’s not working. 

“Talking to yourself, now, Daj’?”

The familiar voice almost makes her drop the nail into the flames— _and if that’s not a sign that this isn’t working, I don’t know what is,_ she thinks, frustrated. 

She turns around with a huff. “Ever heard of knocking?” she asks. She’s aiming for annoyed, but she’s never been able to hide anything from her brother, not really.

He raises an eyebrow, looks at her for a long moment, then sits down at the sturdy wooden table. “What’s up with you? You look like you’re spoiling for a fight!”

Daja feels annoyance rise in her throat, and takes a deep breath. _I’m not angry with Briar,_ she reminds herself. She sighs, puts down the nail, and takes a seat opposite him, pulling out the letter and dropping it on the table. “This,” she says. 

Briar takes it and turns it over. “This is from Namorn,” he says. “Rizu?”

Daja frowns, harder than she means to. “It’s been months. _Now_ she writes to me?”

Briar shrugs. “Women,” he says, as if that’s an explanation, and then has to duck when Daja swats him around the head. “Seriously, though. Why haven’t you opened it?”

She sighs again. “I don’t know that I want to. I was just starting to forget about the whole thing, and now...” she looks down at the table, feeling her cheeks grow hot. “What could she say that would change anything? I’m here and she’s there, and that’s how she wanted it.”

Briar puts the letter down, and leans back in his chair. “You don’t know that until you read it.”

”I know _that_ ,” she snaps, then squeezes her eyes shut. “Sorry...” She puts one hand over the letter, as if to hide it altogether. “I guess I’m not as over it as I thought.” 

She doesn’t look up, but she can feel the weight of Briar’s hand over hers. “Read it, don’t read it,” he says, and she’s suddenly glad that it’s Briar she spilled her worries to. “You know where to find us when you need to talk about it.” Daja looks up at him, and he gives her a crooked smile. “I’m finding out that talking does help, after all.”

Daja places her other hand over his, and squeezes. “I know,” she says, simply.

—

Briar awakens with a gasp, a thin sheen of sweat standing out on his brow. The old nightmares from Gyongxe won't quite leave him, but now they merge and twist with other memories and other dreams. Sometimes he is in the Gyongxe war, but his sisters are there instead of Rosethorn and Evvy, and they are fighting the Namornese too. Sometimes, he is all alone there, fighting with no magic and only a street-rat’s smarts. And sometimes—on nights like this one—he has nightmares that have nothing to do with the war at all, but that take him back to days of being hungry and nameless and unloved, belonging to nobody. 

  
He kicks off the covers, and lies there, staring at the dark ceiling and feeling the living vines twist along his arms. He sinks his mind into the cool earth, rooting himself in the here and now and pushing away the nightmare like an intruding pest. Unclenching his first, he feels the warm lump in his palm like a seed—the potential for growth, a starting point for his new-old relationship with his siblings. _More like the bulb of a crocus or snowdrop, then _, he thinks, distractedly. _It looks like a dried up husk, until you bury it in good earth and it comes up new and beautiful.___

  
The chill of the room cuts through his thoughts, and he reluctantly leaves the soil and the world of plants and turns his mind back to the world of men. Instead of the quiet of the soil, he finds his way to the solid-not solid garden at Discipline Cottage—not the real one, but the one he made, the one that can stay home forever, if he wants it to be. Perhaps it’s still reluctantly that he sends out mental tendrils to his siblings, but he can't help but feel relieved when he hears Tris’s voice from the roof. 

  
“Come on then, slowpoke,” she calls. “It’s no use just moping around in the garden. Come up here - you can tell me what I should read about ‘the flora and fauna of the Eastern Isles’ to make my professors hate me all the more.” 

  
Briar grins, and imagines himself onto the roof. It's not quite talking about his nightmares—not yet—but he can feel the new growth of their shared life, nonetheless.

__—_ _

_Tris’s room at Lightsbridge is cold, spare, and exactly how she had imagined it—lacking in any comforts or niceties whatsoever. She had even expected that of the university itself, in order not to be disappointed. But she had never expected the dragging feeling of not being enough, being the wrong person, not living up to expectations, that not only dogs her days and time in classes like a foul wind, but also is now keeping her up at night while sleep eludes her._

  
She lets a little lightning loose from her braids, and uses it to light a candle by her bed, forcing herself not to calculate the cost of the wax as it burns. Instead, she catalogues her thoughts, seeking out the root of the worry, tracing its epicentre in her mind. It isn't the lingering ache from her Namornese injuries, of that she’s sure. Nor is it an academic concern; she’s smart enough to keep up with the other stuck-up mages-to-be, and fortunately, due to Niko and her voracious reading, she knew plenty of theory before she ever started there. 

  
It’s not the distance from her siblings, either, she realises. Somehow, the warm lump in her palm still keeps her feeling grounded when nothing else feels right. Now, in the flickering candlelight, she examines it more closely—just a twist of skin, barely visible to the eye, but easy to feel with a folded hand. As her fingers close over it, a voice breaks the calm of her mind.

  
_Tris. Why are you awake?_ Sandry sounds sleepy even through their mental bone, but her warm affection seeps through too. Tris closes her eyes and allows herself to enjoy it, just for a moment.

  
_Too much time on my hands,_ she replies, flippantly. Then she stops herself, and adds: _And no voices on the wind at this hour._

  
Although as much as she would like to blame her recent mood on that, she can’t, not really, Tris realizes. The voices are a nuisance, a worry and a bother—she learns too much that she shouldn’t and even more that she doesn’t care about at all. But she has, at last, grown rather used to them.

  
Sandry sounds more energetic now, full of ideas. _You know, I have an idea that might help, like the braids helped you keep weather in your hair. What if we could weave something together to shield out the voices, so you could just listen in when you wanted to?_

  
The idea strikes a chord in Tris’s mind, and as she replies, more enthusiastic than before, she barely notices the feeling of wrongness slip away.

  
Only later, when Sandry sends her the weaving for her window, their first experiment in controlling the wind-scrying, does Tris realize what the problem is, and kick herself for not knowing sooner. This bare and empty room and friendless place are not her relatives’ loveless houses, no matter the similarities. She closes her hand over the thread-circle lump, and knows exactly where her family is.


End file.
